


Underneath Your Clothes

by the_ragnarok



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, Strippers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-05
Updated: 2011-04-05
Packaged: 2017-10-17 15:40:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/178383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames knows that Arthur worked as a stripper before. But knowing and seeing are two different things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Underneath Your Clothes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cobweb_diamond](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cobweb_diamond/gifts).



> Written for cherrybina's kinkfest, for a prompt specifying that Arthur used to be a stripper. Beta'd by Laria Gwyn, who is lovely and awesome.

"You can stop staring now," Arthur says, with his accustomed dryness. "It's nothing I haven't done before."

If this was, in truth, meant to make Eames stop staring, it misses the mark entirely.

"I mean, it wasn't exactly the same," Arthur says, thoughtfully. "There was generally more wearing cut-off jeans and things like that."

Eames manages to find the breath to say, "When, exactly, did you get around to doing that?"

Arthur shrugs. "When I was seventeen."

The image of this - fuck, the thought of it is burning into Eames' brain, red-hot. Arthur, seventeen. Not cocksure, he wouldn't be, but not shy either. Eames can't imagine that at seventeen Arthur had all his present confidence, but -

No, scrap that, Eames can full well _imagine_ it, though he doesn't think it particularly likely. It's _not_ imagining it, at this point, that's becoming difficult. "Isn't that illegal?"

"Only if you get caught." Arthur smiles, and for once Eames can lean close and kiss the corner of his mouth, licking at it for a minute until Arthur flushes. Doesn't push Eames away, though. Not today. Today they're alone and planning, and this job is just the two of them. It's an old-fashioned con, if it can even be called that. In complete honesty, it's nothing but glorified pickpocketing.

Eames would be lying if he said he didn't enjoy it, the return to his old line of work. He is, however, a bit stymied by Arthur's ready capitulation to his proposed scheme.

Maybe he shouldn't be. Arthur never was one to drag him back.

"So we're agreed, then," Eames says. "You'll do it?"

Arthur nods. He inspects the immaculate white shirt he's wearing, the fine detailing on the cufflinks Eames brought him from Berlin. "Will this do?" he says, indicating his outfit.

"Oh, yes," Eames says quietly, taking hold of Arthur's wrist, feeling the rush of his pulse beneath the thin fabric. "It will do very well."

~~

It's not a strip club, not by any definition of the term. It's a gentlemen's club, certainly, one with a very specific clientele in mind, and very specific forms of entertainment. Their mark is one of the club's most important patrons, and he's all but impossible to come into contact with otherwise.

Getting an invite is the easy part, since Eames can create his own. Getting Arthur in would have been more complicated, except that they had an opening. A very specific type of opening.

"Are you sure," Eames says, as he watches Arthur getting dressed. If anything, Arthur's looking more formal than ever, serious and beautiful, from the crisp line of his starched collar to his shoes, buffed to a high shine.

"What do you think?" Arthur says in place of an answer. His hands go up to his hair, and he frowns momentarily. "Should I slick it back?"

"No," Eames says, breath catching in his throat for some reason. "Leave it loose, I think."

Arthur nods, and it's his serious expression, his work face. Eames dearly hopes Arthur can manage to make himself look the part. Professionalism is good and well, but not exactly what their audience is bound to expect.

"Hey." Arthur's hand is soft on Eames’ cheek. "Trust me, okay?"

"Of course I trust you," Eames says, indignant. He sighs, turns his face to kiss Arthur's palm. "You know I do," he says, quieter. But – well. It's their first job together in the real world, to Eames' knowledge Arthur's first taste of real world crime. It's not Arthur's job, generally, to be the distraction, unless the distracting involves loud explosions.

"I know what to do, Eames," Arthur says. "I can work an audience if I have to."

It's one of Arthur's myriad virtues that he never over- or underestimates himself, sure in his knowledge of his abilities, of himself. Eames bows to his superior judgment.

But he takes Arthur's pocket square out, even so, straightens it and folds it over, tucking it back in.

"There," Eames says, surveying Arthur.

Arthur puts on his jacket, one clean economical motion. "Let's go."

~~

The show starts with Eames in his seat, a glass of scotch in his hand that he has no intention of actually drinking. Pity, that – it's a fine Glenfiddich, to which Eames would love to show better appreciation – but needs must.

Arthur was meant to be the warm-up to whatever top attraction the club generally featured, but for some mysterious reason said attraction was unable to make it, so Arthur shall be the sole focus of attention tonight. (Well, the reason is mysterious to Eames, at least. He finds it best not to ask Arthur about these things.)

The room is set up like a boardroom, with a modest stage set up where the speaker's stand would be, merging into what looks like a very large mahogany conference table. The other patrons are sitting around it, arrayed in a horseshoe shape, various glasses in their hands kept filled by discreet waitstaff.

A man in a dark navy double-breasted suit comes to the stage, clearing his throat. This place wouldn't have anything to do with anything so bourgeois as a microphone, relying instead on good acoustics and their patrons' manners.

"I would like to present to you," the announcer says, "a newcomer to our fine business. We are very impressed with his skills and hope you will find him pleasing."

The announcer leaves the stage to some polite applause. Eames is starting to wish he'd snuck Arthur in as one of the waiters. Unnoticed, smooth, Arthur could have fit right in there. Eames could have relied on the mark's preoccupation with the entertainment as it was.

But the plan is what it is. Too late to change it now, as Arthur rises to the stage. Eames blinks, because for a moment he has a vertigo-inducing sense of deja-vu.

Arthur stands on the stage looking at the patrons, expression serene. He looks just like he always does at the end of a well-executed briefing. For a moment Eames expects him to say, "Any questions?"

Rather, Arthur steps to the front of the stage and slowly removes a single cufflink.

The silence in the room is tense, palpable. Eames wishes for the distraction of background music, bright lights, the cozy haze of drunkenness. Anything but the grace of Arthur's familiar movements as he takes off his jacket, leaving it folded neatly on the stage floor.

Then Arthur walks up the table, heavy shoes clacking on the wooden surface, right up to Pinkerton, their mark, at his seat at Eames' left.

Pinkerton looks up, meeting Arthur's eyes. He does nothing so crass as offer Arthur money. Instead, he inquires in a deep polite voice, "May I remove your shoes?"

"You may," Arthur says, oddly grave.

The mark's fingers are slow on Arthur's shoelaces, careful. Arthur extends one foot, balancing on the other one with complete ease.

Arthur's not wearing socks, and for some reason that hits Eames, a ridiculous pang of longing when he sees the pale flash of Arthur's ankles.

 _Ankles_. For the love of God. Eames is quite glad he never bothered to be worried about his sanity, because it's very clear he lost all of it somewhere along the line.

Worse still, he can't bring himself to regret it in the least.

Pinkerton takes both of Arthur's shoes off. His hands linger on Arthur's bare foot, only for a moment, but long enough for Eames to notice.

Eames isn't given to possessiveness. He trusts Arthur implicitly, both on the subject of work and beyond it. But Pinkerton had his hands on Arthur, for just that fleeting second, as if it was reasonable that Arthur would allow it. As if Pinkerton had any right.

But Arthur's walking away from them, barefoot, to introduce himself to the other patrons, and Eames camouflages his distaste with a gulp of drink. A single sip's not likely to hurt anything.

Arthur knows what he's doing, Eames reminds himself. Arthur's in control, devastatingly so, not a hair out of place. Figuratively, at least. Eames feels a sharp pang of regret at that - he should've asked Arthur to slick it back, put it away.

This, as it is, the contradiction of Arthur's severe expression and the soft fall of his hair, tears at Eames. He's an actor, for crying out loud. He responds to cues. He knows Arthur-at-work and Arthur-at-play are two completely different creatures, and this blurring of the lines is making him desperately uncomfortable. Especially where his trousers are concerned.

The muted _thud_ of Arthur's belt hitting the table snaps Eames back to the situation in front of him. At a man's subtle sign, Arthur kneels (so graceful, so easy it makes Eames' heart ache), thighs splayed wide to allow the patron access to Arthur's zipper.

Arthur's expression doesn't change at all as the man unbuttons his trousers. Eames isn't certain whether he's relieved by that or not.

This patron is apparently more careful of Arthur's personal space, because Arthur remains there after the patron takes his hands away, legs spread, a hint of his white pants showing through the unbuttoned top of his trousers, a sliver of exposed skin just above it that makes Eames' mouth water.

By all rights, Eames shouldn't be reacting like this. It's not like he doesn't have regular access to Arthur in his full, glorious nakedness. Eames shouldn't be like these men around him who are growing wide-eyed, sweating discreetly into their three-piece suits.

But Arthur is Arthur, and Eames can't help the way he reacts to him, never could nor ever wanted to. He allows himself to lean back in his seat and watch as Arthur bends down, a perfect straight right angle, his arse thrust out, to let a man loosen his tie for him.

~~

By the time Arthur comes back to their side of the table, he's down to his pants and his unbuttoned shirt hanging half-off his shoulders. His nipples are stiff and he's hard, easily visible through the thin line of his underwear.

The rules here aren't standard strip club rules, exactly. No one will ask for a lap dance, for one thing. Which, looked at one way, is a crying shame; Eames is certain Arthur can lap-dance like nobody's business.

But on the other hand, the way Arthur could theoretically perform a lap dance quite literally should be nobody's business. Or nobody but Eames', to cling to the precision that Arthur demands from him. From anyone, really, but from Eames most of all. Eames would say it's a dreadful burden, but he hates to be obvious when he's lying.

At any rate, the rules of the club do not outright specify no touching between the clients and the workers. It is expected that the patrons use their discretion, and in the event that this is found lacking, sufficient compensation can be arranged.

And still, the last thing Eames expects when Arthur comes to stand in front of them is for him to extend his foot to Pinkerton, like a lady extending her hand to be kissed.

Pinkerton hesitates for a moment, and - No, nevermind, the _last_ thing Eames expects is Arthur frowning slightly at Pinkerton's lack of response and raising his foot to Pinkerton's lips.

Eames hears Pinkerton exhale, sees his hand rise to grasp Arthur's ankle, and for a dizzy moment he can't remember why he shouldn't punch Pinkerton's piggish face out.

Then Eames blinks, slips back into the mask of polite interest he's tried to wear all evening, and reaches under the table to swap the briefcase he's brought with him with the one to which Pinkerton's been holding tight until just this very moment.

When Eames can focus on them again, Pinkerton is holding Arthur's foot in his palm, entranced. Arthur doesn't even look inconvenienced, seems perfectly content to stand where he is and let Pinkerton admire him.

Then the moment passes, and Arthur walks a few steps back. He's standing in the middle of the stage, and with brisk movements he strips off his shirt, flinging it to land on Eames' face, the little bastard.

Eames struggles – with the shirt, somewhat, but mostly with his urge to leave it where it is, to soak in Arthur's scent and ignore the rest of it, Arthur's body bared for strangers' eyes. Then he shakes himself and removes it, privately rolling his eyes at his own sense of melodrama.

By the time Eames wrestles the shirt off, Arthur's entirely naked and entirely hard, touching himself without even the faintest hint of self-consciousness. There's a different quality, now, to the silence in the room, thick as it is with the patrons' heavy breathing.

If one of them requests it, Arthur might lie down and bring himself off, right there where they all can see him. Arthur looks like he doesn't even care, rubbing himself absently, as if he doesn't know every man in the room wants to do it for him. Although that may be only Eames' biased assessment of the subject.

Eames hadn't even noticed the announcer coming back to the stage. He doubts anybody did, really.

"Well done," the announcer says. "Everyone, please show your appreciation to Mr. Charles."

Eames is very nearly too busy trying not to choke to think, _Ask them to stand up, mate. That'll show you appreciation._

~~

Pinkerton stops Eames on the way out. Adrenaline rushes through Eames, and he pushes a casual hand to his back pocket, feeling for the security of the gun tucked near the small of his back.

"How much do you want for that?" Pinkerton says, flustered, and it takes Eames a moment to understand Pinkerton means Arthur's shirt, which Eames has absent-mindedly folded to carry under his arm.

"Sorry, mate," Eames says, smiling just enough to show teeth. "Got plans for it." Those plans mostly involve getting it cleaned, but Pinkerton doesn't need to know that.

Pinkerton's own smile wavers and dies. He turns away without a word, the flush on his face receding quickly. He smoothes his jacket and shakes his head before leaving, as if to clear his mind of everything that took place. Handy, that, how embarrassment makes people likelier not to overthink things, to ignore the little details that don't fit. Eames should remember that.

The drive to their hotel room is a lonely one, but Eames can hardly let himself be seen with Arthur just now. As it is, they're being criminally lax about their safety and discretion. But just this once, perhaps they can allow themselves a little slack.

~~

When Eames reaches the hotel, he waits until the door is closed to shove off his trousers and lie on the bed, panting, eyes closed.

He can't decide, is actually torn between having a quick wank right where he is and waiting for Arthur to return. He wants relief, needs it right now, but he needs even more to pin Arthur to the wall, to the bed, to sink to his knees in front of Arthur, _yes_ –

"Starting without me?" Arthur's voice is warm, amused, and Eames nearly jumps out of his skin because he hadn't heard Arthur coming in.

"Didn't think you'd be here yet," Eames says, hoping that Arthur will put his shortness of breath down to – well, anything but what it is, really. It's a silly hope, but Eames does like those.

"They let me out early." Arthur sits down next to Eames, leaning into him, legs spread out in an invitation Eames doesn't want to ignore. He has no idea why he's holding back, cupping his hand over his cock as though there's something there Arthur hasn't seen yet.

Arthur's dressed again, fresh and pressed. His shirt is different, but otherwise he's wearing the same clothes. Excepting the hair, he looks just like he does on a job. Eames wants to kiss him so badly it burns, but he can't convince himself to move.

"Apparently I've made twice as much money in tips as their usual guy does," Arthur says. "It's surprisingly lucrative. Maybe I should switch jobs."

He's teasing, Eames knows he is. Arthur's trying to make Eames laugh, to make Eames tackle him into the bed so they can go back to being themselves again. But Eames remains still.

"I'd rather you didn't," Eames says quietly, and turns his face to Arthur's. Who is looking – not shocked, exactly, but closer to it than comfort would allow.

"Okay," Arthur says, strangely rushed. "Okay. I was kidding. I wouldn't. You know I wouldn't, right?"

Eames should be saying that of course he knows, of course Arthur can do whatever he chooses. He hardly needs Eames' permission to do anything. But at times Eames is a selfish man. He's comfortable with that. "I know," he says, and bends to press his face to Arthur's stomach, breathing in clean sweat and unfamiliar detergent.

He means to push Arthur down into the bed, truly he does, but his hands remain limp at his sides. Arthur huffs a laugh and mutters something Eames can't quite hear, then he rolls them over so Eames is on the bottom with Arthur straddling his shoulders.

Truth be told, there are few places Eames would rather be.

Eames' hands come to rest on Arthur's hips, drawn there as they always are, but his eyes are resolutely glued to where Arthur's slowly unzipping himself.

"For me?" Eames says, half-joking, but his tone can't even make that sound convincingly false.

"For you," Arthur says, quiet and oddly abashed. "Anytime you want."

Arthur's cock is red and hard and beautiful, and Eames needs it, wants it with a ferocity that turns everything blindingly white for a moment. But he can't make himself lean forward, has to wait until Arthur's hand cradles the back of his head, until Arthur's feeding him his cock and Eames can do nothing but suck and be grateful.

He's grateful, too, that Arthur talks to him, for the smooth rhythms of Arthur's voice, for the words that are more tender than anything Arthur usually lets out of his mouth. "Please. Yes. So good. I love this so much. I – "

Eames goes off then, without so much as a thigh to rub his cock against, nothing but the weight of Arthur's hand on his neck and Arthur's cock on his tongue and Arthur's words in his ears.

Arthur staggers off the bed, and Eames should be taking his shirt off, getting cleaned, but he can't even muster the motor control to open his eyes.

There's the sound of running water from the bathroom. Eames isn't surprised, a moment later, to feel Arthur's palm curling around his thigh, a warm wet towel wiping him clean.

"I love you," Eames says, and he didn't quite mean to. But this day is full of things Eames didn't mean to do.

"I know," Arthur says, bending to kiss him softly. "Me too, okay? Me too."

Eames isn't even sure if he’s ever said it before, if Arthur's ever said it to him. It seems such an odd thing to even think about when it's so bloody obvious.

"No swanning off to become a stripper, then," Eames says. He sees no reason to open his eyes just yet. Anyway, Arthur's just slid in beside him, all warm, soft bare skin, and Eames wouldn't spend time looking when he could touch and taste instead.

"Fine," Arthur says, but there's a fondness to his amusement. "I won't. But you liked it, don't even try saying you didn't."

"Mmm," Eames says, noncommittally. He likes a lot of things that are bad for him. Luckily, he also likes Arthur, which balances it out.

"Sleep now," Arthur says, fingers sliding down Eames' closed eyelids, and Eames obeys.

**Author's Note:**

> Writing this, I couldn't actually decide if this took place in the same 'verse as the Happy Endings stories or not. Came to the decision that this is a kinda-sorta AU of that 'verse, where things happened a little differently.


End file.
